Under the Skin
by Ccharisma
Summary: Watch Thomas Barrow get what he deserves, and watch me as I try to figure out what that is.
1. Chapter 1

"So have you paid the man yet?" asked O'Brian

"No, and I don't think I'll have to" answered Thomas

"What do you mean?"

"He skipped town. Police must have caught on to him or something. I haven't heard from him."

Thomas Barrow, former army Sergeant, was referring to the man who had, a few months ago, swindled him out of everything he owned in exchange for black market supplies that had turned out to be useless rubbish. This experience had brought Thomas to the brink of despair, and forced him to be truly helpful for the first time in his life, in order to try to win back his old job of Footman, and eventually valet, at Downton Abbey.

Thomas had originally left Downton to join the Army Medical Corps, in the cowardly hope that it could keep him out of the trenches, but Lady Britain had proved more desperate then he had anticipated and he had been forced to become a stretcher bearer in the War. The horrors of battle and constant death had made a dent in the nasty outer shell that had been all anyone had ever known of Thomas for most of his adult life. Afterwards, he had taken up duty in a hospital under Major Clarkson, Downton's former doctor, helping take care of wounded soldiers alongside Lady Sybil Crawley. It was there that he was changed the most. He met Edward Courtenay, a young lieutenant who had been blinded by mustard gas and made bitter by the thought of life without sight. And this is the tough part to explain, because it is the nature of human feelings that they are never easily separated from what we think they aught to be, what makes sense to us. Thomas had loved men before, mostly handsome dukes and lords whom he had seduced quite easily with his handsome face and caressing hands. But although those secret affairs had been passionate and lustful, they had never really touched his heart; they had merely been exciting alternatives for what was really wanting. Mr. Courtenay was different. Thomas felt compassion for him; Sympathy, sorrow, genuine affection. Not in the way that he wanted to have a love affair with him as much as he wanted him to get well and have a happy life. Edward didn't mind talking to him, opening up to him. For the first time in years, Thomas didn't feel like a freak. That was why Edward Courtenay's suicide hit him so hard, because he lost his first real friend.

And so, Mr. Barrow returned to Downton Abbey not a different man, but the seed had been planted inside him. And watered with a bit of desperation and care (the latter of which he may or may not receive- we shall see) Thomas may change for the better. But not yet.

Thomas and O'Brian continued their conversation in low voices. Thomas lit a cigarette and added a breath of smoke to the mist that was gathering in the kitchen courtyard. His cold grey eyes swept the surrounding area as they always did, suspicious and watchful as a cat in a stiff tuxedo. They saw a girl in a long black coat walking through the courtyard towards the back door, the wind tugging at the rather messy knot of dark hair that was clinging to the back of her neck.

"Who do you guess that is?" Thomas murmured

"A new maid maybe? There's a position open since Jane handed in her notice." O'Brian answered "Coming in though the back door, who does she think she is?"

Thomas gave her a thin-lipped grin and tossed his cigarette onto the ground, grinding the ashes into the cobblestones with the toe of his shoe.

"Lets go see how she gets on, maybe we can help her settle in." he said and strode towards the house.

-A Few Seconds Later-

When Thomas entered the house, followed by a very innocent-looking O'Brian, he came upon the usual new-servant-in-the-house scene. Everyone had stopped their work in order to leisurely make their first impressions of the new maid. Mrs. Hughes stepped forward and shook her hand.

"Thank you for coming. I hope you won't mind jumping right in; we need all the help we can get. I had a feeling you would be a good match for this house when we met in London, and now my opinion will be tested."

The new maid gave the room a sweeping half-smile and brushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes with a hand that was almost covered by the large cuff of her coat.

"Everyone, meet Lydia Harrison" Mrs. Hughes addressed the room "She will be taking over Jane's position."

O'Brian gave Thomas a knowing look, which, unfortunately, Anna Bates caught, before she turned her attentions to Miss Harrison.

"I'm Anna Bates, head housekeeper" she said, with a pleasant, if somewhat wan smile.

"And I'm Mr. Carson, the butler." said the tall, large featured man who stepped out from behind the ladies. "Mrs. Hughes speaks very highly of you, so I am sure you will be able to live up to the level of service Downton is used to."

Miss Harrison shook his hand, cleared her throat, and spoke for the first time.

"I believe so, sir"

No sooner had she said it, and everyone had more or less finished polishing their opinions of this new maid, then Mrs. Patmore, the cook, startled them all with an exclamation of her trademark sarcasm.

"Well? Are we going to serve dinner or not? I'm sure the folks upstairs wont mind eating a few hours late because we've hired a new maid."

At this Mr. Carson acquired a somewhat fierce expression.

"We certainly shall serve dinner on time." He said "Thomas, you must be sure not to delay."

With that the kitchen exploded into its usual dinnertime chaos, and Anna led Miss Harrison up the servants' staircase to the room they would share. As they made their way up, Ms. O'Brian made an interesting observation; the new maid had brought hardly any luggage with her. She had no trunk or boxes of any sort, only a small traveling bag slung over her shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas never really cared for new additions to Downton's first floor population. Not to imply that he cared a whole lot more for those that had been working there for years, it was just that new servants usually took a while to get used to the size of the house. They would get lost, which was a bother as he had to waste his time pointing them in the right direction. Worse still, many new staff members felt the need to tell their new co-workers all about their previous lives. This Thomas found exceedingly irritating, despite the fact that it gave him nearly unlimited scope for snarky comments. Lydia was both a complete agreement and an utter contradiction to Thomas's new-maid stereotypes. She seemed to get lost fairly often during her first week of work at Downton, but if she ever asked for help, it wasn't from him. Indeed, she almost seemed scared of him. This made for quite a change, as maids usually either ignored Thomas with a cool air of irritation or fancied him. O'Brian told him about Miss Harrison's lack of belongings and the two of them shared their suspicions, but the truth on this matter could not be coaxed out of Lydia herself. She answered questions when they were asked of her, always with a little half-smile on her face as if there was something exceedingly amusing about having worked in a posh hotel in London, or the fact that most of her relations currently lived in America. She amused everyone with her odd and somewhat witty personality, but made no close friendships aside from Anna, which was due to Anna's friendly nature as well as the fact that the two shared sleeping quarters.

The first interaction Thomas had with Lydia Harrison was on an overcast spring morning when the Duke of Crowborough, a former suitor of Lady Mary's, came to Downton to congratulate his former love interest on her engagement to Matthew Crawley. He was to stay a few days, and brought with him a large trunk of belongings. Lydia was told to go fetch Thomas to tell him to carry the trunk inside, as the Duke had not brought a manservant with him. Instead however, Lydia got the trunk herself. It was a large thing, made of fine wood and adorned with brass, and so heavy that she thought the Duke might have packed clothes made of lead. As she was struggling to bring it inside, Thomas appeared, most likely summoned by Mr. Carson.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded of her

"What's it look like?" Lydia gasped, the distraction nearly causing her to drop the heavy trunk. Thomas swept in and took it from her, casting a look of annoyance as he did so. Lydia followed him as he carried the trunk inside with ease, and stood there with him for a moment after he had set it down, looking quite exhausted.

"Why didn't you call me?" He asked

"I didn't want to make an enemy over a piece of luggage." She said, tilting her head slightly and giving him a tired version of her half-smile.

"An enemy? What am I, a rabid dog?"

"No, not quite, but I have heard you're a person better left alone. And besides…" her grin widened a bit "I thought I could handle it. My sincerest thanks to you for coming to my rescue, Sergeant Barrow." She gave him a curt little solute before turning to walk away. Thomas was taken aback.

"How'd you know I was in the army?"

"O'Brian…and the glove on your left hand. It's a pretty visible way to keep something secret, if I may say so, and I'm a curious person."

"My glove's none of your business! And I wouldn't go asking people about me, If I were you." Thomas said "You might find out more unpleasant things then you want to know."

With that, he turned on his heel. She could carry the trunk upstairs herself. She "thought she could handle it" after all. He wanted to find out what O'Brian was playing at, talking to the maids about him.

-Later that Day-

"What do you mean?" O'Brian demanded "She asked about you and I answered. Is that a sin?"

"No. Just means I've got a different mystery to solve."

"What makes you think it's a mystery? She probably just fancies you for your face like Daisy."

"I dunno, I just don't think it's like that" said Thomas, turning to see Mrs. Patmore's flushed face sticking out of a window into the courtyard.

"Well?" she called to them "Are you going to discuss the apocalypse or come in and help serve luncheon?"

Thomas and O'Brian stood up and began to walk towards the house none too hurriedly, while Mrs. Patmore raged at Daisy in the kitchen for dropping a bowl of salt.


	3. Chapter 3

Later on that day, Lydia was scrubbing the baseboards in the bachelor's hallway on Mr. Carson's request (the woodwork was becoming disgracefully shabby) when she felt someone looking down at her. Turning around with difficulty in her hunched position, she saw that it was Thomas, leaning on the opposite wall, looking down at her with the lordly expression he usually assumed when talking to housemaids.

"What do you think you're doing?" Lydia asked, surprised.

"Why'd you ask O'Brian about me?"

"Is it unusual to be interested in your co-workers?"

"It is here. In these big houses the servants aren't supposed to be friends. We're supposed to bow and scrape and then disappear."

"You mean you buy into all that then?" Lydia asked, standing up.

Thomas looked at her oddly.

"What'd you mean?"

"I mean all the 'yes, my Lord', 'no, my Lady', 'I live to serve' sort of thing. You don't look like the type, always plotting in dark corners. And why do you care so much that I know a few things about you? Goodness knows-"

Lydia's speech was interrupted by the appearance of the Duke of Crowborough, a young man whose large, brown eyes gave off an aura of innocence that his voice did not.

"Excuse me; I wonder if you could tell me which room is mine"

Lydia opened her mouth to answer but Thomas cut her off.

"Same one as last time" He said with a scowl.

The Duke gave Thomas an airy smile and ducked into his room without a moment's hesitation, suggesting to Lydia that he had already known which one it was.

"There's a creepy man." Lydia said, after a moment's silence.

Thomas stared at her.

"What'd you mean?" he asked her for the second time.

"I dunno…he just seems a sneaky one. Worse then you, even. I would bet that he's got a whole bunch of secrets stashed away under that dinner jacket."

Thomas looked at her with an expression that was almost alarmed for a few seconds before settling back down into his customary coolness.

"I wouldn't say such things if I were you. Bad things happen to maids who slander those of higher rank."

Having said this, Thomas slunk away, his dark thoughts blending into the shadows that engulfed him.

The next day, when Lydia was busy straightening one of the living rooms, alone, Thomas appeared again, leaning against the wall once more. This time, Lydia thought, he could start the conversation himself, if he liked. She continued on with her work, plumping the pillows and dusting the vases and other such things. Thomas said nothing. After about ten minutes of this disconcerting behavior, Lydia turned to face him. Before, however, she got the chance to think of anything to say, Thomas spoke up in his usual deep drawl.

"Did you mean what you said before, about all the titles and such being rubbish?"

"'Course I did."

Thomas gave her something that was almost a smile.

"Well, you'll find there are a few others in this house who share your opinions"

"You being one of them?"

"Maybe"

Lydia took a step toward him, heedless of his increasingly intense gaze, interested to have found a fellow rebel.

"Why are you here then?" she asked him

"Its work. And I've recently become valet to his Lordship, which is a step up from footman."

"Oh." she said, looking bored "So you are climbing the magnificent job-ladder of Downton."

"It might be worth my while. There's things you find out when you're a valet. You're in the inner circle."

Now it was Lydia's turn to smile.

"Ah, I knew you were the plotting type."

"Oh yeah? And what am I plotting?"

Lydia cocked her head and gave him an appraising look for a few seconds before stooping to gather up her cleaning supplies.

"I haven't the slightest idea"


	4. Chapter 4

That evening, Mr. Carson asked Lydia to go back up to the bachelor's hallway and scrub the woodwork again. Apparently someone had dirtied it up since she had cleaned it last, which was curious as it had been barelly twenty-four hours. It was a very suspicious business, in the words of Mr. Carson. Lydia had her suspicions. Nevertheless, she went back, late as it was, to scrub it again, not wanting have to do it in the morning. When she got to the bachelor's corridor, however, she found that it was a bit difficult to focus on her work. An argument going on in one of the rooms. Between two men it sounded like. She knew it was a rude thing to do, but Lydia, like almost anyone everyone else, enjoyed the feeling of eavesdropping. She crept closer and recognized the voice of one of the men as Thomas, the other as the Duke. Despite longing to know what the row was about, Lydia almost decided to take the high road. Then the thought came to her that if their roles were reversed, Thomas would absolutely eavesdrop on her. This thought persuaded her to stay. The argument had gathered heat and volume by this time, so Lydia could hear quite clearly every word that was said.

"So you think you can stab me in the back and then come here and make everything fine?" Thomas was saying. He paused a moment before adding "How did you get invited here again?"

"I'm a Duke. I can invite myself anywhere I want."

"But you can't really be interested in Lady Mary's engagement."

"No, I came here to be with you. See if I could patch things up..."

Things went quiet for a moment.

"Don't think I'll hesitate to ruin you if I ever get the chance." Said Thomas

The Duke gave a hollow laugh.

"How in the world could you do that without ruining yourself?" he asked "We'd both go down together. That's why it makes no sense for you and I to be enemies."

There were a few more minutes of silence, during which Lydia began to figure out what they were talking about.

Finally, Thomas spoke in a low voice.

"You bastard."

"Ah" sighed the Duke "I suppose that's a no then. Don't think it troubles me, there are plenty of others better then a sullen footman."

"I know what your lot are like," Thomas said, and Lydia heard his footsteps heading for the door but didn't think to hide. "You think you can use us and then get rid of us, but we'll prove you wrong in the end."

Thomas stepped out of the Duke's room and Lydia froze, hoping that he was too worked up to take a proper look around before heading downstairs. He leaned against the door that had been shut behind him for a moment to catch his breath. His hair was mussed up, his forehead covered in beads of glistening sweat. Then, as if he could feel her there through the blackness, he turned to look directly at Lydia for a split second before whirling around and heading down the hallway towards the staircase to the servant's quarters.

The next day, the Duke of Crowborough left Downton. His visit had been upsetting both upstairs and downstairs. Her Ladyship spent most of the day in bed. Having recently recovered from the Spanish flu, she was still in a generally weakened state, and whatever unpleasantness the Duke had caused all but did her in. O'Brian, always the dedicated and news-hungry nursemaid, stayed with her gathering information, while downstairs the servants had a rather relaxed day of it, as the Crawley family spent the day resting and didn't want any big meals. However nice this might have been for most of the staff, it was quite uncomfortable for Lydia and Thomas, as trying to avoid someone is never as hard as when you have nothing to do. Thomas spent most of the day smoking in the courtyard by himself, and Lydia found a place of relative comfort, sitting on the last step of the staircase that led to the maid's rooms. There, she let the facts she had discovered about Lord Grantham's valet settle in her stomach.

-About a month passes-

Lydia and Thomas were no longer strictly ignoring each other, but they had no more conversations, and Lydia found that Thomas was steadily avoiding eye contact. The unpleasantness that had come with the Duke's stay at Downton faded, and the days blended into routine, there being no outstanding news or gossip for the servants to discuss, no large events for them to prepare for. The thing that eventually yanked everyone out of their sleepy, humdrum state was Mr. Carson falling ill. It seemed nothing too serious, just a bout of weakness and coughs that kept him abed for a few days, but Mrs. Hughes was quite anxious nonetheless, Mr. Carson being recently recovered from the Spanish flu.

A day or two into Mr. Carson's sickness Lydia went in to bring him some tea. Mrs. Hughes had originally asked Thomas, but when instead of going he struck up an argument with her about whether or not she had the authority to boss him around in the butler's absence, Lydia decided just to take the tea herself, if only to get away from the scene. Mr. Carson was awake and sitting up in bed, reading from the wine inventory when she came in.

"I brought you some tea." She said, eyeing his work "Why must you do that now? If you never rest when you're well and you never rest when you're sick you'll not be our Butler much longer."

"You sound like Mrs. Hughes." He said, putting down his work.

She gave Mr. Carson a kindly half-smile and started to leave the room, when she stopped in her tracks and turned to face him again.

"Yes, Lydia?"

"Well, Mr. Carson, I was wondering, how long has Thomas worked at Downton?"

"Well…" He thought for a moment "His work has been a bit on and off, but altogether I would say about eight years. Why?"

"I don't know…I was just wondering."

Lydia paused again, wanting to ask more, to see how much Carson knew about the private doings of the secretive valet, but decided against it. She left Carson to his tea and made her way out through the deserted kitchen, intending to go out for breath of air in the courtyard, but she saw something as she passed the open door to the storage room that made her halt. Thomas was standing in front of an open cupboard, going through the silver. Lydia almost rushed in and stopped him, but fear and doubt stopped her. It would be very awkward indeed to overreact, as things between her and Thomas were already rather brittle. Perhaps Mr. Carson had instructed him to check on the silver in his absence, for dirt and scrapes and such. Deep down Lydia knew Carson would never trust Thomas within ten feet of the Crawley family silver, but she was prevented from changing her mind when Mrs. Hughes came into the kitchen looking for Mrs. Patmore. Lydia turned to inform Mrs. Hughes that Mrs. Patmore and Daisy had made a trip to the market to fetch ingredients for that night's dessert, but she still saw Thomas stash something in his coat out of the corner of her eye, before he the took up the pretense of scrubbing the storage-room table.

Mr. Carson was well and on his feet again the next day, and after everyone had finished celebrating his return, being the fastidious man that he was, he went to check on the contents of the storage room, which had been left unattended in his absence. A few minutes later he came striding out, a look of extreme worry on his face. Lydia barely needed to listen to know that a piece of silver had been stolen. She threw a cautious glance over at Thomas, who was helping Daisy pick up some dish she had dropped. His face was a perfect lie.

Whatever Thomas intended to do with the silver, or however he planned to hide it, he waited too long. Mr. Carson carried out a search of the servant's quarters to no avail, which seemed to set Thomas totally at ease, but he had no answer prepared for when Carson found an elaborate silver teapot hidden under his jacket in a corner of the courtyard, behind a stack of old crates. It was an intense confrontation if there ever was one. Mr. Carson was nothing if not careful of Downton's family heirlooms, and with the evidence of the crime pointing solely to himself, Thomas was an escape artist without a crowbar. For some reason, utterly unknown to herself, Lydia spoke up, breaking the strained silence of the interrogation.

"I asked Thomas to take the teapot, Mr. Carson."

They both stared at her, aghast.

"And why, Miss Harrison, did you do that?" asked Carson, after gaining his composure.

"I had noticed a small scratch on it a while ago, and since you were ill, I thought it might be a nice surprise If I fixed it before you got well." Lydia lied, trying very hard not to glance at Thomas. "I didn't want to give anyone the wrong impression by searching around in the silver cupboard, so I had Thomas go and fetch it for me, as I thought he would know where it was without much trouble."

Carson looked quite surprised, and gave Lydia a very serious look before speaking.

"Were you aware that such actions were not at all suited to your post? And why did you have him keep it outside, if you were concerned for its welfare?"

"I had an inkling that maybe I oughtn't, but unfortunately my rash side won out. I'm terribly sorry that I overstepped my bounds, but I did so with only the best for this house at heart."

At these words Mr. Carson's expression softened a bit.

"and as to the teapot's being outside," Lydia continued "I'm afraid I didn't tell Thomas specifically where he should leave it, and he probably thought if he put it anywhere in the kitchen it might be ruined, and if he kept it in his room until I got the chance to fix it he might be taken for a thief."

At these words Thomas's mouth, which had been hanging open during most of Lydia's confession, slowly shut, leaving only his eyes, sharp and grey, staring at her with an unbelieving expression.

"Well, then," said Carson "I suppose there hasn't been a theft after all. Both of you aught to learn to be more careful with others' valuables. And I am rather surprised at you, Lydia, for not knowing your place, but at least we shall not have to live through a sacking, which is always pleasant to know."


	5. Chapter 5

Thomas was utterly confused. Why had Lydia lied for him? She owed him nothing, and on top of that she had just found out a very dangerous truth about his personal life. To be honest, Thomas was confused about more then just the silver ordeal. He felt as though his whole being was changing. Due to his significant pride, he probably would've rejected the Duke's returned affections even if he had really wanted them…but that was just it. He didn't. In fact, he couldn't even think of his former lover without cringing, and thinking of how many other male members of high society he had been involved with. He now realized they had used him, all of them. How could he have stooped to become such a tool for so long, an instrument to be played with and then dismissed with one gesture of an airy hand. It was pathetic, the lot of it.

Thomas went looking for Lydia. He had to find out why she had covered for him like that…if only to satisfy his own curiosity. It didn't take long to find her, as she had found her way back to her spot at the foot of the stairs, and Thomas took his customary position, leaning on the wall opposite the staircase, before speaking.

"So why'd you tell Carson that story? It'd be no skin off your back if you let me get sacked."

Lydia looked up at him for a moment, but couldn't see his face clearly for the shadows cast by the retreating daylight. It was better, since she didn't feel the full intensity of his gaze as he waited for her answer.

"I guess I wondered if I could make a friend."

"You'd be friends with me…in spite of what you know? What you…overheard?"

"Why not? To be honest I don't quite know what to think about what I heard. But what I do know is that it makes you no worse then everybody else."

Thomas blinked. His grey eyes searched the lines of her face, trying to tell if she meant what she said. If she just wanted to get under his skin, or if she really wanted to be…friends. Finally, after a few uncertain moments, he held out his hand.

"Want to go for a walk?" he asked her

-A few days pass-

"So what did you really do, before you came here?"

Thomas and Lydia were sitting at the table in the courtyard, talking. It was a lovely day, as Lydia had pointed out earlier. There had been a light rain-shower, so that everything was covered in little sparkling droplets; the kind that make even things that are dull shades of grey and brown beautiful.

Lydia laughed at the question.

"What, you don't believe I worked in a London hotel?"

Thomas snuffed out his cigarette.

"I'm not an idiot. People from London carry a small community of trinkets around with them wherever they go. You came here with almost nothing."

"Fine." She said "I didn't work at a hotel. I worked in a house, Goadings Park. It was quite like Downton, actually. Sarcastic cook and stiff butler and everything. But things went wrong and I left…sort of ran away, left everything there. It probably wasn't a smart thing to do, but it seemed necessary at the time."

Lydia threw a nervous glance at Thomas and found, to her great surprise, that he caught it. It didn't bounce off his black uniform or his pale, set face. Thomas looked back at her in a way that seemed almost kind.

"What did you do then?"

"Well, Mrs. Hughes had visited Goadings a while back. Said that she was pleased with my service or something…I don't quite remember. Anyways, I worked in a pub for a while until I got my bearings, then I came looking for her. I hoped she might have a job opening for me. I got directions to Downton, and met Mrs. Hughes on the train coming here. I guess she had been calling on a friend or something. She asked me right off if I was available to take a job as a housemaid, I didn't even have to ask. I stayed a night in the village so that it wouldn't look like Mrs. Hughes had dragged some poor street urchin home with her, and then I came."

Thomas lit another cigarette.

"You're lucky everything came together. You could've been in trouble, all on your own with no money."

"Maybe," Lydia said "But things usually work out some way or other."

Thomas let out a low laugh.

"I don't know about that. I was in a pretty bad spot not long ago, and things wouldn't have shaped up if I hadn't put the pressure on to get my old job back."

Lydia twitched a little as he spoke, then put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.

"You sound like someone who has been looking after himself for a long while."

Thomas stayed still for a moment, playing with his cigarette absent mindedly in his lap, trying not to get too flustered by the small, warm hand that was touching him.

"Yeah, well…my dad died when I was just a lad. Got run over by a carriage. My mum was sorry, but I wasn't much. He was a clockmaker, and he cared a lot more about his work then he ever did about me."

"Its surprising, isn't it?" Lydia said "How few parents take the time to get to know their children. Makes you wonder if all the murderers and psychos of the world are how they are just because no one ever tried to figure them out."

"Never thought about it like that." Thomas said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Is that your plan then, to figure everyone out?"

Lydia laughed.

"Not exactly. I might try my hand at a few though."

Thomas smiled to himself. The little housemaid was trying to get under his skin after all…and making remarkable progress.


	6. Chapter 6

"What's going on with you and that Miss Harrison?" O'Brian asked Thomas later that night

"What'd you mean?"

"I mean you're new chatting buddy, that's what I mean!" O'Brian exclaimed. "Don't tell me you've made a new friend."

"So what if I have?" Thomas said, "Its not as if listening to your woes has set me up for life."

O'Brian raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, so it's like that, is it? Don't make me remind you how many times I've gotten you out of trouble."

"Right, I forgot that I was dealing with the woman who remembers everything. Do me a favor and don't play God with me. Just stay out of it."

"Fine." Said O'Brian, rather offended. She gathered up the mending she had been working on and was about to leave, when one of the housemaids came rushing in.

"There's something wrong with Lydia!" she cried

Thomas stood up quickly, but O'Brian, curious as always, beat him to the punch.

"What is it?"

"She was coughing quite a bit, and I was worried, but she said she had probably just caught a bit of what Mr. Carson had not so long ago…she had brought him some tea while he was sick in bed. She just finished saying that she was perfectly alright when she fainted straight to the floor!" The poor maid wrung her hands in anxiety. "What should I do?"

"Show me where she is." Thomas ordered the maid, hurrying away after her.

O'Brian was left in the kitchen looking rather incredulous, her mending in her hands. Well, she thought, would you look at him, becoming a regular little hero for the swooning pauper-princess. Who would have ever thought.

-Ten Minutes Later-

By the time the housemaid had led Thomas to the place where Lydia was lying, crumpled on the floor, she was quite pale and sweaty with fever. Thomas, from his experience working in an army hospital during the war, could tell that she was pretty bad. He had a sudden flash-back to rows of white beds in a wooden room. To men tossing and turning in agony, each lost in his respective haze. He knelt down and scooped Lydia up rather awkwardly into his arms. As he carried her back downstairs, heading for the housemaids' quarters, his thoughts drifted once more to those feverish, wounded soldiers, and how many of them had been covered with a sheet in the morning.

At the foot of the stairs, Thomas ran into Mrs. Hughes.

"My goodness!" she exclaimed, staring with horror at the limp being in his arms. "What happened?"

"She was taken ill." Thomas said, not stopping to explain more.

When he had finally got into Lydia's room (he was pointed there by the housemaid who had been tailing him nervously all this time) and laid her on one of the narrow beds, Thomas stopped for a moment. He leaned up against the smooth wall of the little room and caught his breath, then sent the housemaid, who had been staring wide-eyed at Lydia, to go fetch Dr. Clarkson. Lydia would be fine, surely, he told himself. Hadn't Carson just been ill with the same thing and been better the next day? The thought encouraged him, and he straightened his jacket before sitting down on a low, wooden stool against the end of the bed to wait for the doctor. An hour passed. Lydia, who had not so much as moved a muscle since Thomas had rescued her from her heap in the hallway, opened her eyes.

"I'm sorry" she said, very quietly

Thomas turned toward her, jerked out of his uncomfortable daydreams.

"Sorry for what?"

"I don't know…" she trailed off, obviously confused.

Thomas moved to sit at on the foot of her bed.

"It's all right, whatever it is." He said, and then added, so quietly that even if Lydia had been listening, she wouldn't have been able to hear. "I'm going to take care of you."

A few minutes later, Dr. Clarkson finally arrived. Thomas barely hid his anger at the delay.

"I suppose you were busy with important matters, Dr. Clarkson, otherwise you'd have come at once."

The Doctor gave him a withering look.

"Yes, Thomas, I would have." He said, walking over to the girl on the bed. She had lapsed back into unconsciousness, or perhaps it was sleep. It was difficult to tell. Either way, she did not respond to Dr. Clarkson feeling her forehead and listening to her heart.

"It's nothing serious." He said, after a few more minutes' prodding. "Just a sudden bout of sickness; sometimes we have no idea where they come from. She should be back on her feet in a few days."

Thomas, relieved at the news, stood up and gave him a tight-faced smile.

"Thank you, doctor"

The next day, Lydia was a great deal better, and would have been up and about if Thomas had not insisted she rest for awhile longer.

"Besides," He had added "Why go back to loony town before you have to?"

Lydia gave him a wide grin.

"Can you do me a favor then, if I'm not allowed out of bed?" she asked

"What is it?"

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to tell whether or not to proceed with her request.

"There's a man going to come to the back door tonight," she said "late, after everyone is in bed. He should have a letter for me."

"I'll get it." He said, looking into her face, which, he thought, was pretty even when screwed up with anxiety. He certainly wouldn't have taken her for one to be getting secret midnight letters. Still, he waited by the back door that night for her mystery mailman. While he waited, he got a chance to take in just how quiet it was downstairs when everyone was sleeping. The kitchen, empty without Mrs. Patmore's shrill ejaculations, held a creepy feeling in its scrubbed copper pots and kettles.

The silence fled as a small tap at the door reached Thomas's ears. Standing at his full height, he opened the door to find a bearded old man, leaning on a battered cane and wearing a shirt that looked like it had seen the downfall of the Roman Empire. The old man wasted no time, but pulled out from some unseen pocket not a letter, but a tiny, dirty piece of paper. As soon as he had placed it in Thomas's outstretched hand, he turned and began walking away, but not before Thomas got a glimpse of tears running down his wrinkly cheeks.

Thomas closed the door before looking down at the note the man had given him. It had no envelope, so he wasn't really even invading Lydia's privacy, he told himself. On the scrap of parchment, two words were scrawled in large, slanted handwriting.

"HE'S DEAD"


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Lydia awoke feeling quite refreshed and certainly well enough to start work again, whatever Thomas might say. She woke Anna up, and the pair of them dressed silently, tying each other's aprons in the faint light of dawn. Lydia had just let her hair out of its braid to put it up for the day when she remembered the letter. Dropping the comb she had been running though her hair a scant second ago, she ran out of the room and downstairs, ignoring Anna's bewildered calls for her return. She had to find Thomas. If all had gone well, Thomas should have the letter.

Needless to say, Lydia attracted many eyes as she tore from room to room, her loose hair billowing out behind her. It was only after she had exhausted every room of the first floor that she remembered that it was seven o'clock; Thomas would be dressing his Lordship. She made a wise decision and chose not to interrupt Lord Grantham's morning routine to inquire after her letter, mostly on the basis of the idea that if Thomas had indeed gotten it, he probably had not taken it with him into his Lordship's bedroom. This thought calming her down, Lydia made her way back upstairs to make herself respectable, while Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore clucked to themselves about the peculiarity of the younger generation.

Thomas, meanwhile, listened with only half a mind to Lord Grantham's news on his daughter's wedding plans. With the other half, he fastened cufflinks and wondered who the old man at the door last night had been (Thomas had made it his business long ago identify everyone in the village by name, so he must have been a traveler), who had died, and when Lydia would inquire after her note. When he had finished his duties and bowed to his Lordship with the usual stiff ceremony, he headed downstairs, his head spinning with a million questions. The question that was answered first pertained Lydia's timing. She pounced on him halfway down the stairs.

"Did the man come last night? Did you meet him? Did he have a letter? Did you open it? Did he seem upset? Did he say anything?" she asked quickly, using up half of the oxygen in the room as she did so.

"He came." Thomas answered, a smile twisting his face as she pawed his chest in nervous excitement.

"You have it then?"

"Yes," he drawled "one moment please, let me get my bearings."

He disappeared into the men's dormitory for an agonizing few minutes. He came out with the little scrap of paper lying in his upturned palm. Lydia took it from him with trembling hands and read it. Thomas half expected her to burst into tears or sink to the floor in misery. She did neither, just stared at the tiny message with wide eyes that didn't blink for a long while. Finally, when Thomas had just about lost his patience, she relaxed, crumpled the piece of paper in her hand, and smiled. Thomas was taken aback.

"So?" he prodded "Who died?"

Lydia took a deep breath before she spoke.

"Mister Jonathan Forbes."

"And who's he?"

"He," Lydia said, choosing her words carefully, "Was, until quite recently, a man who was threatening to betray me. He seems to have died of the Spanish Flu."

"Betray you how?" Thomas asked, his curiosity overcoming his traditional calm demeanor.

"I can't tell you that!" Lydia exclaimed, before adding in a rather sultry tone, "Unless I can trust you."

"What do you think?" Thomas answered with an indulgent smile. With that, the two of them scurried through the kitchen, not giving a thought to breakfast, and out into the courtyard where they could talk freely. When they had reached their customary spot, Lydia turned to Thomas, and, very seriously, began her story.

"Well," she said, "it all began when I was working at Gresham House. I was head housekeeper, and good friends with the footman, Jonathan Forbes. The Lady of the house had a guest from London; The Countess Newberry. Perhaps you've heard of her?"

Thomas nodded his assent. He knew the countess through her husband's valet, with whom he had regular correspondence. It was thanks to the Count of Newberry that he always had such accurate and timely accounts of the doings in London.

"Yes, well," Lydia continued, "I was serving them tea in the garden one afternoon, when I noticed that the Countess was looking at me a great deal. I of course I couldn't say anything, so it was soon forgotten. Then, a few days later, she called me aside when they were all eating dinner and asked me my name. She said I looked very familiar, and asked if we had met before. When I assured her we hadn't, she let me go. I didn't know what to think of it, and when I told Jonathan he barely seemed to pay attention. He must have been listening, though, because he did a lot of poking around later, when I told him that the Countess had talked to me again, this time to ask about who my parents were. I didn't know about it for a long time, until he told me, but apparently he found my mother and wrote her a letter. Now, I barely ever knew my mother, so its natural she never told me, but I'll always wonder what Jonathan did to get it out of her. Apparently she told him that she had once been ladies' maid to the Countess of Newberry…and had an affair with her husband."

Thomas's eyes widened in disbelief as his mind added two and two.

"And then you popped out, eh?"

"Apparently so"

Thomas took awhile to digest the information and then grinned.

"So the other half of your history is codswallop as well then, is it?" He said, jokingly accusing her "You've got no family in America."

Lydia blushed.

"No, I haven't." She admitted.

"Wait, then," said Thomas "Why are you so happy this Jonathan bloke's dead if he's the one who found out your royal lineage?"

"Because he wanted me to tell!" Lydia said, her voice edged with anxiety, "At first he tried to convince me it was the smart thing to do, but when I refused he changed his tune. Said he would if I didn't. I begged and begged him not to, and finally he said he wouldn't so long as I married him."

Thomas's face darkened. "Idiot." he said, taking a drag from a cigarette he'd lit. "Why didn't you want it to get out, though? You could've gotten money from them, they'd have given you a lot if you'd offered them silence."

"Maybe," Lydia conceded, "but it wouldn't have been worth it. I'd hate to be tied to people like that, all high and mighty and vain, even if they were the only one's who knew it. I couldn't live off money that had been inherited from a million dead relations who would've hated me just because I'm working class."

Thomas exhaled a slow stream of smoke, taking in what she said. Lydia seemed to be reliving her story in her own head. Her eyes had a far-away look as she went on with her story.

"I almost married him." She said "I was just about to, when I realized that I had another option. I could run away. Jonathan might spread the story with me gone, but as he wouldn't profit from doing so, he had no reason. He might stay silent. And even if he did tell, it would be the Newberry's who would suffer the most. I knew if I could get far enough away the story had a good chance of dying before it reached me."

"So you just left." Thomas said, looking at her intently.

"Yes. And that was that until recently, when I got a letter saying that Jonathan had found out where I was, and was threatening to tell the story again. I had the letter for a while, actually, in my apron pocket. I had forgotten to read it, until a few days ago in that hallway upstairs. That's why I fainted." Lydia trailed off, perhaps remembering that moment of fear renewed.

"And then he died." Thomas said, finishing the story for her, and snuffing out his cigarette as he did so, which seemed almost symbolic in the moment. His blunt statement brought Lydia back from the cloud of memories in which she had been swimming.

"Yes," She agreed, and relaxed her jaw, which she now realized she had been clenching as she spoke. "Then he died."

There was a few moments silence before Thomas got to his feet.

"Well," he said, "It seems you're not the only one figuring people out. You're story's told me a lot about you, Lydia Harrison, and I thank you for sharing it with me."

Lydia looked up at him shyly

"Not the sort of story you hear every day, eh?"

This statement brought a grin to Thomas's face, and he laughed to himself for a long minute.

"It is here." He replied.


	8. Chapter 8

Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, was a man who enjoyed laughter, well-behaved company, and pleasant, slow-moving routine. While others, namely his daughters, craved excitement, he felt quite content just knowing that his day-to-day business was constructive, and might someday build up to be something admirable. He had been born one of the few people in the world who never stopped being grateful for the simple things; a good book, for example, or a great estate well managed. One day, shortly after eating breakfast with his wife and daughter Edith, Lord Grantham went into his library to write a letter to a friend. His steps almost bounced as he went, appreciating his life, which was happily reverting back to its pre-War state, with every fiber of his being. When he opened the library door, however, he was greeted by a quite un-routine sound. A maid, who had probably been sent in to tidy things up, had been looking at one of his books, only to put it away in a hurry when she heard her employer's footsteps, and causing a rather loud, panicked rustling noise as she did so. It was Lydia.

"Were you reading one of my books?" the Lord asked, his voice kind

"Yes, my Lord, but it won't happen again, I promise." Lydia said hurriedly

"Oh no, you've done nothing wrong." Lord Grantham assured her, "In fact, so long as you take care of them and return them in good time, you are more then welcome to borrow any of my books that might interest you."

"Thank you very much, my Lord!" Lydia said, turning back to the bookshelf with a sparkle in her eye. She had never really been much of a reader, but now that she had access to these four massive walls of books, she must take something back. She picked up a large, leather-bound book at random. It turned out to be a history of trade between Europe and the East Indies. After flipping through it a bit, Lydia set it back down gently with her fingertips, as though afraid that the touch of her palm might send it to pieces. The language in it looked as though it might be centuries old. Nobody talked like that anymore. She passed on to look at the covers and titles of other pieces of literature, and she wondered if she might not become a great reader over time. Up till this point Lydia had never had the opportunity to read very much aside from secret letters and old newspapers blown into dirty corners by the frisky English wind. As she came to the end of a row, a small blue book caught her eye. Picking it up, she realized that it was a book of names and their meanings, presumably to help in the process of naming one's baby. This would be fun to look at, she thought, perhaps the others downstairs might be interested in finding out what their names mean. With the naming book clutched in one hand, Lydia gathered up her cleaning things with the other and left the library. She had told herself she was thinking of the others, but it was really only a valet who was on her mind.

While Lydia was grazing the Crawley family library, Thomas was busy avoiding work; a fact which would have surprised none of the other staff members. He had spent most of his time at Downton building a reputation as a slacker, and to disown such a hard-won prize would be unthinkable. He ducked into a small room next to Mr. Carson's office to avoid a stampede of young footmen and kitchen help, who were scampering around to the orders of Mrs. Patmore's flaming tongue, and was just taking out a cigarette with which to celebrate his escape, when he heard something moving behind him. Someone, it turned out to be. While Thomas's eyes got used to the darkness in the tiny, closet-like room, the man who was hiding in the shadows behind him continued to re-arrange his gangly limbs, apparently not realizing the had had been discovered. After watching the man try to make himself as small as possible for several seconds, Thomas cleared his throat. He was delighted by the effect this slight noise had on the intruder, and put on his best sneer as the man scrambled to his feet to face him.

"And who might you be?" Thomas demanded, observing as he did so that the man was quite a bit younger then he had originally taken him to be. He had neatly combed blonde hair and a prominent nose, over which he examined Thomas silently. His firmly set jaw suggested that he had no intention of answering the question.

"You'd better answer me," Thomas said, stepping towards the door in a casual threat.

The man held up a hand to stop him before speaking.

"I am someone whom you would do well to listen to." He said, his boyish voice crooning in the darkness.

"Why's that?" Thomas asked, surprised almost as much by the voice as the words.

The stranger's face stretched into a rather winning smile.

"Because if you don't, I shall go to your employers and explain to them the details of your personal life, Thomas Barrow."

The sneer fell from Thomas's face as these words took their effect. He went to close the door before addressing the intruder's bold statement.

"And what is it exactly that you know about my personal life, sir?" said Thomas, his tone more polite this time.

"Things involving the eldest son of the Count of Lankishire and the Duke of Crowborough, among others."

Thomas, realizing now that he had no other choice but to comply with this man's wishes, whatever they were, steeled himself for the worst, inwardly cursing whoever had given him the information.

"And what exactly did you want me to listen to?" Asked Thomas through gritted teeth.

The stranger's grin widened at these words.

"That's much better." He said "I'm afraid that I must ask you to do several rather unusual things, Mr. Barrow. I'm sorry for any unpleasantness that has arisen from my rather audacious threat, but I had to make sure I had your full attention before I informed you of your duties. First, I want you to find me a place where I can sleep out of the radar of whoever is in charge around here, preferably a place where I can have easy access to you in case there is a change of plans. Second, I want you to bring me writing utensils, paper, and ink; good quality stuff, not rubbish. Finally, I want you to arrange for me to have some time alone with the new maid that I understand has recently begun working here. Miss Harrison, I believe she is?"

The man took a step towards Thomas, who looked bewildered and angry as a cat who has been informed that mice are canceled.

"You needn't hurry on the last thing, though." Said the stranger in a kind tone edged with vice, "I know how difficult it can be to find time for conversation in a big house like this."

He took another step foreword, and was now so close that Thomas could see the streaks of brown that intermingled the blue of his eyes.

"Who are you?" Thomas asked, his lips forming the question so quietly it could barely be heard.

The stranger placed a heavy hand on Thomas's arm, squeezing it in a way that reminded him a bit of Lydia.

"I'm Jonathan Forbes." He said.


	9. Chapter 9

"What about you, Mrs. Hughes?" Lydia called to the woman walking primly across the kitchen. "What's you're first name?"

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips in mild amusement, but before she could respond, Thomas answered for her.

"It's Elsie." He said with a saucy, tight-lipped smile. "Elsie Hughes."

It was quite late, but most of the downstairs folk were still wide awake and giggling. Lydia was sharing her baby-names book with them, and what had begun as a few people sitting at the kitchen table had grown into a throng, all of them huddled around Lydia and Thomas, whose arm was resting on the back of her chair. Thomas had proved himself very useful indeed to this particular amusement, if a perhaps bit too knowledgeable for his own good. He knew the names of everyone who had been at Downton for more then a month, and had no qualms about sharing this information.

"Ah, here it is," Lydia said, after flipping a few pages, "Elsie; it's a German form of Elizabeth, which means God is my oath."

Mrs. Hughes gave a satisfied little nod before continuing on with her business.

"Look up Beryl." Said Mrs. Patmore

Daisy looked at her in surprise.

"Is that your first name?" she asked in her usual, big-eyed tone.

"Yes," said Mrs. Patmore, with a roll of her more matronly eyes "it is."

"Beryl is an English name, and it is a sea-green colored semi-precious stone." Came the answer.

"Oh!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed, clearly flattered at being called semi-precious. "If that isn't fancy."

"What about John?" Anna asked in a very clear voice from a few feet away.

Everyone looked over at her, apparently thinking that she might burst into tears at the name of her incarcerated husband. She did not.

Lydia gave her a kind look before flipping more pages.

"Ah, here, John. It is a Hebrew name, and it means God is Gracious."

Anna's face brightened at this hopeful information, and regained some of the prettiness that it had lost when Mr. Bates was ripped from her life. Everyone was quiet for a moment.

"What about Daisy?" Daisy asked quietly, breaking the bitter silence.

O'Brian spoke up with a snort of amusement.

"It means daisy, you noodle."

"Oh…"

Daisy dimpled cheeks flushed in embarrassment before she thought of something else and asked; "What about William?"

Beryl Patmore shot her a sympathetic glance.

"William is English for strong-willed warrior." Lydia told her.

"Look up Thomas." Thomas asked, not to be surpassed by the late footman's rather impressive name. He leaned over Lydia's shoulder as she searched the little book, enjoying the warmness and the closeness of her as he did so. Sarah O'Brian looked on with a smirk.

"Thomas; means twin." Lydia said quite solemnly, before looking at the man sitting next to her, anticipating a smart remark. He looked none too pleased.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked with disgust.

"I think a more accurate question would be _who _is that supposed to mean." Mrs. Patmore corrected him, a lordly twinkle in her eye. Before Thomas had the chance to retort, Mr. Carson stepped into the kitchen, his disapproving glare scattering the younger servants and giving the older ones a good start. Lydia decided against asking him about his first name.

"And what are you all doing out here so late?" He asked in his familiar rumble.

"Nothing." Answered O'Brian, the words exiting her out of habit.

"Well then," said Carson from underneath his heavy eyebrows, "I see no reason why you should not all go to bed."

This put a quick end to the rest of the little party, and in less then five minutes the candles were snuffed out and goodbyes were said. Thomas gave Lydia a handsome grin to take with her to bed, which she did gladly, while he walked towards the male servants' quarters, rather dreading the person he knew he would be waiting for him there. Indeed, the first thing his eyes clapped on as he entered his room was the intruder from almost a week ago, who was sitting on the edge of his bed and wearing his usual clever smile.

"You know, this is getting a bit old." Thomas informed him in an irritated voice for about the eighteenth time, "I don't know why you can't just talk to the maid on your own. You don't need me. Just sod off, why don't you. You're getting nowhere."

Jonathan Forbes's face twisted into one of weary patience.

"I've told you," He said, "I won't leave until I've talked to Miss Harrison."

Thomas tossed a box of cigarettes down on the dresser in resignation.

"Fine. Just don't expect to be talking to her anytime soon. I still haven't made up my mind."

Jonathan gave a long sigh at these familiar words. It was late, but he was not tired in the least. His mind was too busy to be concerned with such trivial things as sleep or a slow-moving plan. He leaned back on the iron bedstead and watched Thomas undress. The eerie, ever-present smile crept back onto his face. Jonathan's eyes swept from the valet's broad, bare chest to his finely chiseled cheek bones and thin, red lips. The air in the bedroom stiffened, alerting Thomas to the man's cool gaze. He turned slowly. Jonathan Forbes's boyish croon sounded through the thick air.

"You know, I've always liked the feeling of these great houses." He said, "Living with so many other people really gives you the opportunity to get close."

Thomas just stood there, his mind efficiently stalled by the young man who was now walking toward him. It had been so long. Jonathan was now right in front of him and breathing softly on his neck. Smiling lips made their way up to meet cunning ones, and Thomas threw caution to the winds. He dug his fingers into the neat, blonde hair of his companion and the two of men began to make their way back towards the bed.


	10. Chapter 10

Within the clatter of pots and pans, the misty clouds of flour dust, and the dull sounds of steel knives hitting wooden cutting boards Daisy worked. Despite the fact that she was only the assistant cook, she was the one who prepared most of the food for the upstairs folk, while Mrs. Patmore oversaw her progress and made the daily stew for downstairs dinner. Because of all this responsibility, as well as the fact that she was prone to daydreaming, many of the other staff members tended to overlook Daisy as a source of information. She did notice things, though. She noticed what was going on between Thomas and Lydia. She noticed how much time they spent together, and she saw the way Lydia looked at the valet when his back was turned. Daisy had never thought of herself as being one to give advice, as she was so young and had been so sheltered from the world during her short life. However, she had been in Lydia's place. It wasn't long ago that she had been the one who blushed any time Thomas graced her with a glance, but she had learned things since then. Daisy had seen Thomas unaffected by the death of an unborn baby, the imprisonment of an innocent man, and even the last gasps of a young boy whom he had worked alongside for several years. If there was anything Daisy Mason was sure of, it was that Thomas was heartless, and that anyone who went in search of his missing organ would be drowned like the poor passengers on the Titanic by the icy waters that had taken its place.

It was true that Lydia was falling for Thomas. Indeed, especially in the past few days it seemed as though he had undergone a rather dramatic change. He was full of life and sarcasm; he had even begun to smile more often. And Lydia let the butterflies take over, ignoring the small, prim voice in that back of her consciousness that told her something was wrong with those smiles. The strange set to the corners of Thomas's mouth when he was with her, and indeed even when he wasn't, had been a source of more then a little confusion, before she came to the rather wishful decision that liked her too, but was stopped from saying so by the weight of his past. In actuality, Thomas had been let in on a plan, and although it had taken Mr. Forbes a bit of trouble to convince him to be a part of it, Thomas was not one to cop out of a scheme that might benefit him.

"So, are you finally going to allow me an audience with your precious housemaid?" Jonathan had asked the morning after their sudden sexual interlude. Thomas had given him a calculating look. If his previous antics had taught him anything, it was that one swallow did not make a summer, and that trust should be won slowly if at all.

"Only if you tell me what you have to say to her." He said. Despite the fact that his relationship with Lydia was a bit muddled at present, Thomas did feel an odd need to protect her, a feeling which would not be dissipated even by his well-developed instincts of self-preservation.

"I am going to get her to agree to expose a certain fact about her lineage." Jonathan said, after a bit of a pause. He assumed that Thomas knew to what he was referring. He assumed correctly.

"But what makes you think she'll agree to it now if she wouldn't before?" Thomas asked

Jonathan would have smiled at this, if he hadn't been smiling all along.

"Because I have you." He replied.

Thomas raised his eyebrows and exhaled a thin stream of cigarette smoke through pursed lips.

"And what are you thinking I'm going to do?" he enquired.

"You'll talk her into it. She fancies you, Lydia does, or I'm a rotten eavesdropper."

Thomas opened his mouth to say something, but Jonathan anticipated him.

"You'll do it because there's money in it for you. I'll make sure she gets a good settlement from the Newberrys for keeping silent, and you and I will see a good bit of that. It'll be worth your while, I promise. So you just tell her you want to run away and get married, but you don't have the money. She'll fall in an instant, I'm sure of it."

"Oh really?" Thomas asked him disbelievingly, "Because that worked so well for you, did it?"

Jonathan looked bewildered.

"What?"

"You tried to get her to marry you before and she went scampering away." Thomas reminded him.

Jonathan soaked up this statement for a moment before letting out a hoot of laughter so loud it was heard from the kitchen.

"Is that what she told you?" he asked before adding, to himself. "What a little beggar."

"What'd you mean?" Thomas asked, it being his turn at confusion.

"Nothing." Jonathan replied, shaking his head in wonderment before settling back into business mode. "So will you do it?"

Thomas took a thoughtful drag from his cigarette. He had not been lying when he told Lydia he wanted to take care of her, back when she had been taken ill, but he had himself to think of too. It was the only way he survived; taking what opportunities came along without letting anyone get in his way. He looked after himself. And wasn't this a roundabout way of helping Lydia as well? She didn't want the story to get out, but it would only be known by the Newberrys, who would stay quiet to save their own skins, and then she would be rich. She could leave service if she wanted, Thomas told himself. He felt sure she would thank him in the end.

"I'll do it." He said. "We'll want to do it soon though. It's best not to leave these things, in my experience."

-End of Flashback-

Lydia had noticed Daisy's eyes on her for quite some time now. Mrs. Patmore, noticing she had nothing to do, had put her to work scrubbing pots and kettles that had been left undone from the night before. It still being quite early, the kitchen was almost quiet, populated only by Daisy and Lydia. Mrs. Patmore left to buy a brisket for that night's dinner.

"You like Thomas, don't you?" Daisy asked her, in the slightly less fearful tone that she had been slowly wearing in over the past year.

Lydia was taken aback.

"I-I believe so, yes" she replied, before adding a hasty "What's it to you?"

Daisy's big eyes stared at her for a moment before she spoke.

"It's just that…Thomas isn't a good man." She said, remembering the times this same warning had been given to her. "He's cruel and cold and…I know he can seem really wonderful at times but it's not really who he is."

Lydia gave her a patronizing smile. She had heard this before from Anna. She knew Thomas was a man of the world. God, she probably knew more then Daisy did on the score of Thomas's faults, but she could take care of herself. She always did. She opened her mouth to tell Daisy this, but was cut off.

"I know you don't believe me," Daisy said, determined to have her say, "but you should still keep an eye out. Thomas will show his true colors someday. Be careful."

With that, she gave Lydia a small smile and dashed out of the kitchen, leaving the housemaid standing by herself in a puddle of surging thoughts.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note-**

**Please, do read on past chapter one,**

**And don't judge the story before it's done**

**And while I appreciate the non-member review**

**It's rather hard for me to responde to**

**Without commenting on my own fiction**

**Which is a very tacky kind of diction.**

* * *

It was a cold afternoon. Most of the inhabitants of Downton village were safely holed up in their homes or the pub, where the strong scent of beer and the large masses of heavy male bodies created a familiar, warming scene. However, not everyone had sought the refuge of a sweaty bar stool. Three young people were strolling through the chilly streets. Two were walking together, the sleeves of their coats brushing from their closeness, and then another came behind, sneaking along and trying to stay out of sight. Anyone watching them would have thought the two people sweethearts and the sneak an unfortunate reject. That is, they would have thought this had not the man in the front been Thomas Barrow. Because of this monstrous fact, the window-creepers, for there are some in every town, were utterly bewildered by the scene that they soon saw unfolding silently beneath them.

Thomas knew he had to begin. They had been walking for nearly half an hour; he knew the stage was set. He glanced at the girl beside him, who was of course Lydia, and noticed with a smirk that her nose was flushed pink with cold. She looked back at him curiously. Now he really had to begin. So his walking slowed to a halt, and letting a wave of calm indifference wash over him, Thomas bent down and kissed her. He was immediately taken by just how _small_ she was. His arms wrapped around her like she was a small child while the wind fluttered loose strands of her hair and caressed them against his neck. A little hand made its way up to trace the outline of Thomas's ear. It was awhile before they stopped.

"I want to marry you." He whispered, when they finally broke off from each other. His is voice came through sounding strangled as it pushed through his mask of longing.

Lydia almost fainted.

"But…you are…I thought you were…" she sputtered.

"You must be an exception." Thomas said softly, cupping her cheek with one hand. "I just need to find some way to make the money. I've barely a pound to my name at the moment."

This last statement struck Lydia as odd. Her insides were doing a 360 degree flip, but she had just enough wits left to wonder at the words coming out of Thomas's mouth. They weren't the words of an Englishman, and especially not those of an Englishman who had picked up the ways and mannerisms of posh society. These upper class folk and their servants never spoke freely of their feelings, even in marriage proposals. There was always sentiment, of course, because England was not country made of stone, but one did not gush about marriage and exceptions when one was valet to a Lord. Lydia had been under Thomas Barrow's skin, and she could sense she was now on the surface again.

"…but I've come across a plan." She could hear Thomas continuing, "I'll need your help, but if everything goes well, we should have enough to settle down properly."

Lydia drew back at this, suddenly wary.

"What plan?" she asked.

Thomas felt her hesitance, and decided that speed was necessary. He must get her to agree before she heard the false emotion in his voice. He turned and gestured to Jonathan, who had been waiting for just such a summoning, to come forward. Would he have to introduce Mr. Forbes? She would probably remember the face of a former co-worker.

Thomas's musings were answered in the form of a muffled scream. Jonathan had dashed up in time to stifle Lydia's shriek of recognition, and was now paying the price for his interruption as her fists pummeled against his chest and face. Thomas decided that no introduction was necessary and stepped back to watch the rather amusing scene.

"How _dare_ you come here?" Lydia snapped at the grinning man before her. "You're supposed to be _dead_!"

"The grave can't hold me, Lydia." He answered smugly, "Didn't I tell you I'd come back to get what I wanted? You're going to tell Mrs. Newberry all about her husband's affair, and I'm going to get a load of money from it."

Lydia spat at him.

"And for this you faked your own death? I'll never do it." She said, before turning her anger on Thomas.

"And you?" she asked, a note of disbelief in her voice, "You didn't mean anything you just said, did you? You were going to split the profits with Lazarus here and then leave me to rot."

Thomas's face slid into a cool, self-assured smile. If he did feel a twinge of regret, he couldn't let it show. Maybe this whole thing had been a mistake, but he couldn't hang his head like a scolded child and limp away. That cunning smile was all he had, all he could cling to when his grand plans fell apart, and he would wear it come hell and high water.

"I'm not one to pass by a good plan when it waits for me in dark rooms." He replied coolly.

Lydia examined Thomas for a few moments more before turning away in hurt and disgust.

"You've always been _so_ sure of yourself." She began again, speaking to Jonathan this time, "You think you can just arrange the world how you like. You should've learned something from last time. You can't control me."

"Oh, so I'm the devil, am I?" Jonathan cut in, his blonde hair not as neat as it was. "What about you, and all the impressive little stories you tell everyone? You worked in a grand hotel, did you? And I, your little footman friend would rather have married you then exposed your secret. You always have to feel wanted, don't you? Lydia has to be in demand. You're pathetic, with you're superior little grins and your white lies. It's not a wonder mother never liked you."

This last part sounded wrong to Thomas's ears. He had been following the shrill argument from a few feet away, gazing from one to the other in turn.

"So you didn't want to marry her at all?" he asked Jonathan carefully. The story was starting to make sense, and not at all in a nice way.

"Oh, no, of course she wouldn't have told you." Jonathan said with dazzling smile, "She is my sister. Half-sister, really, as we share only a mother, but I wouldn't dream of marrying her if she was heiress to Downton Abbey. I detest liars."

Thomas let this information sidle its way into his brain. So they were siblings. He should have seen it earlier. They had the same flashing eyes and easy smiles, and both had used their soft, plying hands to dig themselves a place in his life. Thomas had loved one and kissed the other, he just didn't know which was which.


	12. Chapter 12

_Thump._

Thomas threw a wadded-up shirt at the wall of his room. It was late. Jonathan had already crept out through the back door on some important mission. All around were the sounds of servants getting ready for bed; maybe reading a bit or writing a letter to some beloved relative or sweetheart. Thomas was remembering his childhood; a congregation of boys standing in front of an old abandoned house, tossing balls. It was an intense game. If you hit the peeling wood of the door; one point. If you broke a window; two. If you could manage to get your ball up on the roof and through the skylight, you were thumped on the back, reimbursed, and let into the inner circle of the mysterious club that held its secret meetings in the rotting shed on the edge of the village every Tuesday. But there was one boy who never threw balls. He stood at the edge of the empty lot that surrounded the house with his hands in his pockets and watched. At first the lads would call to him, tell him to join in, that it was a good game and not very hard. He would just shake his head, without really knowing why, and let his eyes wander for a few seconds to prove his disinterest before coming back again to observe the game. Eventually the boys' calls turned to taunts. He was too good for them, he was not good enough, he should just go home to his precious little mother's lap where he belonged. The boy wouldn't budge but stood there, expressionless, his back stiffened as if the insults would bounce off it if he ignored them hard enough. As time went on the boy grew taller and stronger and his face formed itself into a permanent scowl. One day the boy's father took him out to a big, open field and put a small rubber ball in his hands. He told him to throw it as far as he could, maybe try to hit that tree over there. The boy's father meant well; he thought that maybe if he spent a little time with his son he would grow to be a man instead of staying a sullen child who just looked on as the game was played in front of him. The boy took the rubber ball and threw it on the ground at his father's feet. His father didn't try anymore after that, and was killed a year later by a distracted doctor speeding his carriage through the cobblestone streets to deliver a baby. The son didn't cry. His father had just been another person who tried to make him into something he was not, one more person who didn't understand that he didn't belong with those boys in the empty lot; those boys who were now learning to be stable hands and locksmiths and clockmakers. He was different. He hated it, but he was, and there was no changing the fact. He would make his own way, and never mind those boys. Sod 'em. There was had to be a corner for him somewhere.

Now that boy was a man. He had grown to be one, whatever doubts his father may have had, and he was trying to make his own way but it was tough. He hated everything good and he hated everything bad, and fighting his corner was never as hard as when he found himself attached to someone who fell somewhere in between the two. He just wanted to make it, to make it really well so he could go back and show those boys in the lot that he was too good for them after all, too good to play their stupid games and too good to be a humble stable hand or a poor clockmaker. Thinking of this, Thomas picked up the shirt he had recently taken off, bunched it up in his hand, and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. It felt good. Almost as good as getting a ball onto the roof and into the skylight. He threw a jacket. Then a shoe. The other shoe. Thud after thud echoed through the servant's hallway, waking many sleepy, irritated heads. Mr. Carson silently cursed whoever was making the noise as he made his way to the source of the sound, his robe drawn around him and his thick eyebrows unusually wild. It was strange for Thomas to be making a scene, Carson thought as turned the doorknob. He was usually the one hastily plotting during the distraction of other people's scenes. Opening the door, he blinked as he took in the sight of his Lordship's valet hurling a handful of cufflinks. Thomas froze.

"What on Earth do you think you are doing?" Carson growled at the noisemaker in disgust. "Do you not realize that people are trying to sleep?"

Thomas could think of no possible excuse for being caught abusing his wall at midnight. "I, um…" he began, stammering, "I had a brief fit of insanity, Mr. Carson. I lost control, as it were." Thomas struggled to find his usual calm attitude but found he had thrown it away with his clothing.

"I'm fine now." He added.

Mr. Carson did not know what to make of it.

"Well…" he said, after a few moments bewildered silence, "Just be sure to contain your fits of insanity from now on, especially when they occur in the middle of the night. This sort of behavior does not suit someone of your job status, and I hope you know that."

"I do, Mr. Carson." Thomas replied.

"And go to bed at once!" ordered the butler.

"I will, sir." Thomas assured him.

Carson gave him one last suspicious glance before turning to leave, but before the older man could shut the door behind him, a thought bubbled up from the depths of Thomas Barrow and was spoken aloud before said Barrow could do anything to stop it.

"Wait, Mr. Carson." He said, "I think you aught to know- there is an intruder in Downton."

Carson whirled around, his face suddenly sharp and alert.

"Who?" He demanded, "Where?"

"Well you see sir, he is not in the house right now, but he'll be back. He comes and goes, you see." Thomas said, heartily regretting his decision to speak up.

"What do you mean?" Carson asked him, suspicion dawning on his face once more.

"I mean there is a man who has been hiding here for awhile…he's been blackmailing me so that I wouldn't tell you, but I think it's my duty to, sir."

Thomas did his best to strike a virtuous pose.

"Blackmailing you with what?" the butler enquired.

"It's private, if you don't mind." The valet returned in as respectful a tone as he could muster.

"Well, then," said Carson, exasperated, "If you would be so kind as to tell me the details you _are _at liberty to discuss."

Thomas took a deep breath.

"A few days ago, a strange man cornered me when I was in one of the side-rooms in the hall. He told me he wanted to speak to Lydia, and said he would expose a rather disturbing rumor about me if I did not help him. I refused to do so, and he hung around, trying to get me to find him some time alone with her, but I just didn't think it was right. Now that you know, though, Mr. Carson, I trust you will throw him and his rumors out into the street."

Carson's face could not hold enough surprise.

"You protected Miss Harrison at your own personal risk?" he asked, trying very hard not to think well of the snidely valet.

"I suppose so, Mr. Carson." Thomas said with a small smile.

"Well…she aught to be grateful then."

Carson seemed to mistrust the words coming out of his mouth.

"Well, make sure you call me the instant this scoundrel re-enters the house." He continued, "We must find out how he managed it in the first place so that no more blackmailing ruffians can find their way into Downton."

He started to leave again, but turned back at the last moment with a rather pained look on his face.

"Thank you for informing me of the situation, Thomas. It must have been very difficult for you."

"You're welcome, Mr. Carson." Thomas said brightly, and watched as the butler left the room.

Once he was alone again Thomas's smile melted. It was a lucky escape, to be sure, and a good lie, but he couldn't help wishing it was the truth.


	13. Chapter 13

Anna was away in York visiting her husband, but she should have been back. Prisoners are only allowed short visits, so Mr. and Mrs. Bates were usually torn from each other when the sun went down on the long wooden table where they would sit together holding hands, happy just to be breathing in the same air for a few minutes. This time, however, no guard came to escort John Bates back to the wrong side of the bars. I couldn't tell you what happened, whether the guard simply forgot or whether he spontaneously imploded at his post, but I do know that the innocent man and his wife never missed him. They stayed for hours at that wooden table, long after it was covered in darkness, drinking in each other's warmth like desert travelers in a midnight rain.

The staff at Downton, of course, could have no idea of the pleasant nature of Anna's delayed return. Mrs. Hughes paced the kitchen with close-knit eyebrows for nearly half an hour in anxious wait. Perhaps the train was stalled. Perhaps there had been an accident. Whatever the reason, there could be no investigation tonight, and someone had to go up and get the Ladies ready for bed. Lydia volunteered for the job, mostly to get a little change of scenery. Just the day before a scheme involving his Lordship's valet and her sniveling half brother had come to light, and twenty-four hours of glaring at the floor was beginning to take its toll. Lydia had a pounding headache. As she treaded slowly through the elaborate upstairs hallways on her way to the Ladies' rooms, she wondered at the odd task she was being sent to do. A ladies' maid takes pride in her ability to fondle a curl perfectly into place, while a woman born of genteel blood distains any occupation that produces pleasure through satisfaction. A lady never braids her own hair. She bases her worth on beauty and charm; on the sharpness of her eyes and the coolness of her skin and the soft intelligence of her features, but she is never to appreciate any of these things herself. She never gets to dig her hands into the long, fine strands and weave them back and forth to her heart's desire. Because that would be common. And if there was one word that did _not_ describe Lady Mary Crawley it was common.

In the third bedroom on the left side of the hallway, Lydia found Lady Mary sitting like a queen on the frilly stool before her vanity and gazing at her reflection in the mirror as if it might suddenly come to life and speak to her. She did not turn to look at the housemaid as she entered, but gazed outward from the mirror with dark arched eyebrows.

"What took so long?" she asked, "I've been waiting for ages. And where's Anna?"

"Anna's been kept in town with Mr. Bates. Sorry for the delay."

Lady Mary gave Lydia a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Well, I'm glad. God knows I wouldn't have the courage to have a husband in prison."

"I don't know about that Milady," said Lydia as she began to brush out her long dark locks. "I heard that you stayed by Mr. Crawley's side as his friend when he thought he would never walk again. That doesn't sound weak to me."

There was a pause as these kind words sunk into both women, bringing Lady Mary's worries bubbling to the surface and leaving Lydia's to float away, pushed out by new thoughts.

"I don't know if it's that exactly…" Lady Mary said after a few quiet moments, "I'm not weak, I'm just…"

She struggled for the words. The housemaid brushed and waited.

"I don't know if I have what it takes to _be_ married." She said finally, "I love Matthew dearly, I do, but I get bored so easily. Once things fall into routine I long for freedom, but one can never be free from a marriage. It sounds horrible to say, but I know it will happen. And then what?"

Lydia thought about her answer before speaking.

"I think it's just sacrifice, Milady. If you really do love Mr. Crawley it will be a sweet sacrifice, to be sure, but maybe a hard one at times. And marriage doesn't mean the end to all change and adventure either, from what I've heard, although I can't pretend I am an expert on the subject."

This time Lady Mary's smile softened her whole face, causing pretty little lines to form at the corners of her eyes.

"I suppose that's true." She said, "And sacrifice in itself will be an adventure for me."

Lydia gave a soft laugh.

"I dare say it will, Milady."

* * *

When Lydia left Lady Mary's room a little while later, there was nervous excitement hovering around the edges of her mouth. Listening to the qualms of a formerly selfish woman about to marry the man she truly loved had moved something inside her and made her realize that the only people worthwhile to be with are those who make it hard work. Satisfaction is the key, the key that is so often missed by posh folk who know nothing of the word. It's the reason why so many rich lords drape their marriage beds with mistresses, and why some give up the concept of love entirely and spend their lives looking for money or power. Maybe Thomas was mean to the bone and would never love her in a million years, it didn't matter. What did matter was that she saw something beautiful whenever she looked at those sharp, grey eyes and that she was going to go downstairs and ask him to be friends again.

* * *

Whatever hopes Lydia had about her planned confrontation fled as soon she got close enough to the kitchen to overhear what was going on. From the pitch of Mr. Carson's voice and the sight of the tall, blonde figure who standing several feet away from the howling butler, she gathered that Jonathan had been caught. She flattened herself against the wall of the staircase to listen.

"I mean to get to the bottom of this!" Carson was saying, his face flushed with rage.

"Like I said, sir," Jonathan replied, "if you want the reason I have infiltrated your living quarters ask Mr. Barrow."

"What would Thomas know about this?" Carson asked

"Just let him speak."

Jonathan turned to someone who was out of Lydia's range of visibility, but who must have been Thomas, because he spoke up in the deep, self-assured way that only the former sergeant could.

"I didn't want to tell you before, sir," He said, "because of the trouble it would cause Miss Harrison, but now I suppose I must. The truth is, Lydia and Mr. Forbes are lovers. I saw them at it accidentally a few days back. That's why Mr. Forbes wanted me to tell you, so that you would have some proof and not just an empty claim. She wanted him to come here so that they could be together."

Lydia tried to smother the gasp that echoed in her throat at Thomas's story. Her mind was white with some blinding emotion that had not yet had the chance to take its form. Why? What did he owe Jonathan that he would say such things to protect him? She would lose her job. She would be kicked out into the street then and there, if Carson decided to believe their tale.

Mr. Carson looked on the brink of another heart attack. He could have lifted an automobile using just the ferocity of his eyebrows.

"And you expect me to believe this based only on the testimony of one supposed 'witness'?" he demanded.

"Would you rather take the chance that we're lying?" Jonathan asked the butler through a gleaming grin "Why else would I have come here? You can check me for stolen silver all you want, I've not taken a thing. I came for my love, nothing else."

Thomas was staying strangely silent. Lydia wished he would say something, just so she could hate his words.

"Well, I think it's very suspicious." Carson growled, a little more cautious this time. "I'm not at all sure you two are telling the truth, especially given your record, Thomas, but we will deal with it in the morning. In the mean time _you_," He turned ferociously to Jonathan, "Will leave the premises at once. Because of the lateness of the hour I will not be taking you to the police, but I assure you it is my heart's desire, so no skulking about."

Jonathan threw Thomas a grateful smile and pranced out through the back door into the night, leaving the butler and the valet standing across from each other stiffly in the dim kitchen. Mr. Carson was the next to depart, not trifling to give Thomas a sideways glance as he made his way up to bed. When the slow creaking of his footsteps had faded into nothing, Lydia emerged from the shadows. All her wonderful thoughts of forgiveness and sacrifice had long since been decapitated, and each breath alternately seethed and wept as it burst from her lungs.

"What was that?" she asked the lone figure sitting in the kitchen chair.

"I had to-" he began, but she cut him off. It was hard enough not to cry as it was, and if she let him go on with some useless excuse she knew she would break down.

"Who was it who saved you from being thrown out as a thief?" She demanded, "It was me, wasn't it? And instead of returning any kind of common decency, you go lying for my idiot brother to try and get me sacked!"

Thomas looked at her anxiously as she finished her outburst.

"Are you at all interested in hearing why I did it?"

"No." she said, realizing at last that her screaming did nothing to that cold, pale face. "And you want to know why? Because I was going to forgive you for playing me with Jonathan's stupid scheme. I was about to ask to be friends again, even to _apologize_ for lying to you. I…"

Lydia's voice trailed off. Tears were streaming down her face, and she hoped Thomas couldn't see them in the darkness. The last thing she wanted him to know was how much he had almost meant to her. There was a moment of still, suffocating quiet, and then Lydia turned and left the kitchen. Not by the staircase or the hallway that led to Mr. Carson's office, but by the back door, and Thomas, half-lost in his own thoughts didn't realize what had happened until it was too late.

He rushed out into the black courtyard. It was raining. The drops stuck to his eyelashes and made his vision blurry. He called out her name in what was meant to be a commanding tone but came out as a choked scream. The clever man had melted away and left a hurt little boy standing alone in a midnight storm.


	14. Chapter 14

Thomas was exhausted. He had good reason to be, as it was five o'clock in the morning and he was running on twenty minutes' fidgety sleep, but he still struck a rather odd figure as the wind blew him through the door of Downton's kitchen. The ragged bangs that were hanging in his face stood out in stark contrast to his usual slicked back and pompous persona, and the long night was clinging to his cheeks for dear life, dragging them down and making him look haggard and old. Sarah O'Brian watched him uneasily from her perch on a wooden chair. It had been a sleepless night for her as well, although you wouldn't have known it unless you happened to see the slightly saddened way the curls hung on her forehead.

"So you were out all night?" she asked him

Thomas didn't answer, but sank instead into a chair beside her.

"And you didn't find her?"

"No."

"That's too bad."

She spoke the words in a sympathetic way that almost sounded guilty. Thomas fixed his tired eyes on the mud-stained knees of his trousers.

"I've been everywhere, there's no bloody sign of her." He muttered, not looking at O'Brian but his voice growing clearer and more direct as he went on, his hands lighting a cigarette for moral support. "I'm practically dead, but I couldn't sleep because there's one thing I can't make out about this whole mess; how did that idiot footman know so much about me? And how did he know Lydia was here? I mean, I have some friends around there but I don't think they wouldn't betray me like that. Most of them owe me for something or other."

His questions hung in the still air, not meant in an accusatory way, but harsh enough to cause O'Brian's hands to flutter slightly in her lap.

"I wrote to Mr. Forbes." she said, cutting through the pause in a tone she dearly hoped sounded confident when really, she was a bit afraid.

"What?"

"I told him she was here. The rest of it too. I helped him plan out the whole thing…he never would've come up with it all on his own. He's not the sharpest tack in the dustbin."

Thomas looked at her for the first time, eyes wide and haunted with disbelief.

"Why the hell did you do that?" he demanded, "Did she do anything to you?"

"No, but she was doing something to you." Said O'Brian, determined to fully explain her actions. "I thought you understood; this is a job. We got co-workers, not friends. We serve tables and tie laces and do buttons, and if we get involved in things it's our affair, but you can't let things get too far, unless you want to end up like Anna and Mr. Bates." She let the name of the former valet lengthen in her mouth in order to fully express her disapproval.

"So you saved me from an unsatisfactory attachment, did you?" Thomas asked.

"We're different, you and I." O'Brian began again, her fear changing to defiance at Thomas's incredulous tone. "We're not bound to live through employers, or servants, or anyone else we're chained to in this high and mighty house. I might be able to influence her Ladyship in one way or the other sometimes, but-"

Thomas cut her off. He was standing now, a bit shaky on his feet, but held up by the anger that was now flowing into his words.

"Don't tell me about your precious Lady. Sod her, she gets enough with your tender care, she doesn't need to come in to my life. Don't you realize what you've done, woman? Lydia ran out into the rain with no sodding _jacket_, she could be lying in a ditch somewhere by now, and it's your fault!"

Thomas's outburst was accented by the sound of movement coming from the servant's hallway. It was nearly five thirty, and people were starting to wake up. Daisy would be down any moment now to start the fires in the kitchen. Thomas, worried that his profane exclamations had had reached the ears of a groggy Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes but still flushed from the anger in his chest, strode out of the kitchen to clean himself up before everyone came down. Ms. O'Brian watched him leave and called something after him, determined as usual to get in the last word.

"Don't be so sure it was only my doing, you were the one who finished things off so nicely from what I heard."

* * *

~several hours later~

The second floor of Downton Abbey was as silent as the grave, with two exceptions. The quiet was broken in the large sitting room next to the library by a stream of stressed, ladylike whispers, and the even clicking of ladies' shoes as the Dowager Countess of Grantham made her way down the hall towards the source of the whispers, her elderly ears picking up every simper and hiss.

"I just don't want her to take over everything, like she usually does." Cora was telling her husband, "This is Mary's wedding, after all, and she should have the fun of organizing it herself."

"Honestly, Cora," Her husband replied, "I don't think that the details of the wedding matter nearly as much as the fact that Mary is getting married to a man she really loves."

Lady Grantham's face re-arranged itself into a smile at these words, and she reached out to touch Robert's hand.

"Oh yes. We were always rooting for Matthew and Mary to get together, and now they finally have…it's a dream come true!"

"I disagree!"

This last, rather shrill statement came from the entrance to the sitting room, where the Dowager Countess had made her sudden, distinguished appearance.

Her son and daughter-in-law stared at her with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, not about Matthew and Mary, of course," she reassured them, "I think it's simply ravishing that true love found a way. No, I am referring to the opinion that the wedding does not matter, as well as the idea that I will take over completely and not let Mary assist with the preparations."

She turned to give Cora pursed-lipped smile and found her in the depths of barely concealed rage.

"Do close your mouth, Cora dear," the Countess said with her usual brisk satisfaction, "You look like an American trout."

As Lady Grantham struggled to contain her irritation, the little company in the sitting room received yet another surprise. Thomas, his Lordship's valet, entered the room with a stiff bow and a patronizing smile.

"What is it, Thomas?" Lord Grantham asked him.

"I was wondering if I could talk to your Lordship privately for a few minutes." He said, politely ignoring the obvious disapproval emanating from the Dowager Countess.

"Yes, of course." Answered Lord Grantham, kindly as ever, "Let's go into the library, shall we?"

Robert left his wife and mother with a small nod and walked away alongside his valet, hoping very much that a fist fight would not break out in his absence. He led Thomas next door into his library, which was flooded with noon sunshine, and then turned to him expectantly.

"Now, what was it you wanted to tell me about?"

"Actually, I wanted to ask you a favor, my Lord."

"And what would that be?"

"I was wondering if I could take a few days off…I have some rather pressing business that needs taking care of, and I can't do it by letter."

Lord Grantham was rather taken aback.

"Well," he said, trying to sound gracious but firm at the same time, "As my valet you can't be rushing off to do business all the time…you knew that when you applied for the job. I need you here at Downton."

Thomas's face tightened a bit at this response, but he pressed on.

"Would you let me go in the name of justice, my Lord?"

"Justice?" Lord Grantham looked rather wary, "You would have to explain to me the situation."

He knew it would come down to this. With a deep breath, Thomas began to tell the most compressed and concise version of the last few week's events as he could. He explained them well, if hurriedly, and it was to his credit that he told almost all of the truth, save, of course, the parts that could get him thrown into prison. Lord Grantham listened to his story without interrupting, although his round chin stuck out with reproach during the nastier parts, and his eyes grew soft and concerned towards the end.

"So I want to go out and find her." Thomas said finally, his face stiff with contained emotion. "She could be in real trouble, and she does work for you, after all. Will you let me go, just for a few days? I will try my best to bring her back so she can continue to work for you."

Lord Grantham looked at his valet calmly for a few moments, deep in thought.

"Go." He answered in a voice firm and difficult to read. "But I will ask you not to pressure her to return to Downton. The poor girl has been through a dreadful ordeal, and I wouldn't be surprised if she never wanted to see this place again."

"I will keep that in mind, my Lord." Thomas said, bowing low once more. "Thank you. I will be back as soon as I can."

As the valet turned to leave the library, Lord Grantham remembered his rather unpleasant duty as employer.

"And Thomas?" he called after the retreating figure, who turned sharply at the sound of his name, "We will talk about your part in this whole thing when you return."

"Yes, my Lord."


	15. Chapter 15

He didn't know where to start. This wasn't like trying to find a dog, when you looked in the woods and listened for the sounds of barking and growling, when you called out its name as loudly as you could, because it was the dog's nature to run towards what was familiar. This was different, and half of him just wanted to stand there in the courtyard forever, letting the warm cigarette smoke relax his insides and calm his head. But he knew that no amount of rest would release the gilt that was inside him, twisting his insides like a damp washcloth. If only he knew where to go.

So he just put one foot in front of the other. Thomas walked away from Downton Abbey with long, clean strides; even if he didn't have a destination, he had to give the impression that he did. The village boys stopped their work as he swept by to stare at him in hatred and admiration. An old woman closed the curtains of her kitchen window. A bedraggled cat hissed and crawled away out of his path, threatened by his soft, deliberate footsteps. These were the greetings that followed Thomas Barrow to the train station, where he bought a ticket to Leeds. Gresham House was near Leeds, and although Thomas knew that the last place Lydia would have gone was Gresham House, it was as good a city to start as any, and all he could think of.

It was a windy evening. Nearly everyone at the train station had their hands jammed in their pockets to stave off the chill. To Thomas's left, a young mother pinched her little boy's cheek affectionately, bringing color to his face. On his right, an old man pulled his hat down over his ears and glanced up at the sky, perhaps checking for dark clouds. Behind Thomas, a young man with smooth blonde hair and a pleasant face stood quietly, deep in thought. Indeed, he was so lost in his own mind that he did not recognize the person standing in front of him until the train arrived and they had both climbed on board. The young man, who happened to be Matthew Crawley, sat down opposite Thomas, who was looking intently down at his limp hands with a bit of brightness in his eye that might, perhaps, have been a tear. Matthew saw it and ignored it, like a decent man, and spoke up in a warm, hearty voice.

"Thomas! What are you doing away from Downton?"

The valet's head jerked upwards at Matthew's words, and he straightened up in his seat, remembering that voice calling to him in the trenches. It seemed such a short time ago. He had to stop himself from saluting.

"I'm on a mission of sorts, I suppose, sir." He said, and paused before adding, "What about you?"

"I'm headed to a former-officer reunion dinner in Leeds," Matthew said, with a slight roll of his eyes. "I think it's a bit ridiculous; it's not as if anyone wants to remember the war, but I couldn't very well refuse."

"No…" Thomas looked distant again. The thought had suddenly come to him that there was precious little in his life that he could look back on with pleasure.

Matthew was a bit lost within himself as well, and his thoughts were barely less brooding. He was thinking about his brief stint as an invalid, and, more importantly, of the men who's wheelchair days had not been so short. The war had not been softer on those of higher rank. Matthew knew that many of the officers he was going to see at this reunion were half the men they used to be; and all he could do was sympathize, yet he knew from experience that even genuine sympathy is just an empty word, a word that can no more break through a wounded man's shroud of bitterness then it can fight off companies of charging German soldiers. He could have nothing to say, and he knew it, and it irked him.

Then his mind drifted to the man sitting across from him. Matthew had spent many hours wondering about Corporal Barrow. What kind of person would be so desperate to get away from his rightful duty that he would inflict injury upon himself? How was such a decision ever to be reached without putting oneself above the rest of one's countrymen? And then the dreaded word fluttered into his mind again…coward. Coward, with his cowardly glove and cowardly smile, and his quick little cowardly eyes that blinked as they stared at the floor. But Matthew remembered that ghost of a tear he had seen shining in Thomas's eye, and he shook himself. He had no right to brand anyone a coward. They were human, all of them together, and even if he had no words he could say to limbless and suffering that would greet him in Leeds, he had something to say to this broken man, and for better or for worse he would say it.

"I know what you did."

Thomas jumped in his seat. There were so many frightful things that statement could mean he didn't know where to begin working it out. He opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but Matthew beat him to it.

"About your hand." He said, before adding quickly, over the sound of Thomas's stuttered response, "And I want you to know that I don't judge you for it. It's not the things we've done that define us, after all. We've both been to hell and back, and I would just like to let you know that I've decided to let what happened there stay there. I'm glad to be sitting on this train with you, Sergeant Barrow."

Thomas felt a pleasant stinging sensation in his eyes as he soaked in Matthew's words, and as the countryside raced past on the other side of the foggy window, he let a slow smile steal over his face. This was a moment he could look back on without a cringe, without a shudder. Through no work of his own, Thomas had a really special memory, and it seemed almost to have a cleansing effect as he laid it carefully on top of all the nasty ones he had accumulated over the years.

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

When the train finally reached Leeds and slowed to a stop at the station platform, both men stood up in unison. Without a word, they gathered their bags, or in Thomas's case gathered their thoughts, and left the train in the usual surge of pushing people. The mother who had pinched her child's cheek to keep him warm carried her sleeping boy onto the platform. The old man who had gazed at the sky had taken off his hat. It was evening, and everyone felt a little sad to have exchanged the cozy warmth of the train for the smoky chaos of the station platform. Thomas and Matthew stood quietly together for a few moments, seeing their breath in the chilly air, on the verge of parting ways.

"So what is your mysterious mission in Leeds?" Matthew asked after a while.

"I'm to recapture a runaway." Thomas said, with a failed attempt at lightness. Now that he was standing on the outskirts of the city, he fully appreciated the extent to which he had to search. Then he caught himself. _Had_ to? Who said he had to? Why was he in charge of fishing a flighty housemaid out of the depths of her despair? Matthew interrupted his selfish thoughts with a rather solemn farewell. He could see some of his fellow officers down at the other end of the platform, gathering their things, having just gotten off the train themselves. One man was in a wheelchair, both his legs tiny nubs. Another had an empty sleeve that was blowing freely in the breeze.

"Goodbye, Thomas" Matthew said, trying not to look at the injured men. "I hope you find your runaway."

"Goodbye, sir" Came the soft reply. Thomas also had seen the officers on the end of the platform. He was staring at them; grey eyes unfathomable with what might have been fear or disgust. Matthew didn't notice, but began to walk toward them with admirable speed. Because it isn't just the missing limbs that frighten a man, it's the memory of the way it happened; the dirt and the noise and the blood…

Thomas forced himself to look away. His mind was racing, his head was pounding so hard it was almost audible, and he just wanted to get away. He almost went and bought a ticket back to Downton. He almost abandoned his search and returned to the house whose drama kept his mind safely away from horrors like the ones that had surprised him on the other end of the station platform. Then he turned to look again at the officers. He saw them make their way into the city, the man in the wheelchair pulling himself along steady with quick, pulling thrusts, the man with one arm walking tall and proud beside Matthew, and Thomas ran. He ran in the other direction, around the back of the train station, and into the slums of the city, his coat billowing out behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

_Unfortunately, I will be away from my computer for the next week, so it will be at least that long untill the next chapter installation. However, I plan to write at least some of the next chapter long hand while I am away (I'm really getting into it- don't think I could go that long without) and will get it to you as soon as I return to the world of technology. Thank you very much for all the nice reviews, and see you in a bit!_

* * *

It was growing dark. Thomas found himself walking down yet another garbage-lined street accented with the same dingy little houses as all the others. His footsteps were drowned out by the sounds of poverty and slow, creeping decay. Despite the fact that he considered himself to be a man of the world, with good reason, Thomas Barrow was not a man of the streets, and it showed. Little children glared at him from broken-down porches and overgrown lawns with their hollow eyes like candles flickering in the wind, telling him to go home and leave them to wander in peace. He walked faster. When he turned the corner, he ran into a tiny, shriveled little man. The man was holding what appeared to be a large glass tumbler full of clear liquid, and he was babbling at top speed. Thomas immediately took a step back to get away from the eye-watering stench of old whisky, the corners of his mouth curling down in disgust. The tiny man peered up at him from under a large, lumpy forehead and enthusiastically chanted several more streams of nonsensical syllables. Thomas did manage to catch the words 'father' and 'birthday'. 'Birthday' was repeated several more times, and each time the little man gave a toothless grin and raised his tumbler high in some kind of toast. Thomas just stood there, transfixed, watching him ramble on, and letting his own panic melt into amusement at the strange scene. After a few minutes more of the man's energetic repertoire, however, Thomas remembered that he was in a dark alleyway that was quickly getting darker. He gave the little man one last glance and continued on up the road, hurrying towards what looked like a wider street up ahead. The gurgling exclamations were still audible behind him as he went, becoming shriller and more excited. Thomas laughed to himself as he pictured the miniature drunk shattering his glass with the sheer pitch of his senseless shrieks. Then the sound of a gunshot pierced Thomas's eardrums, and he whirled around to see a dark figure holding a pistol and standing over the tiny, lifeless body of the little man. The tumbler was still clutched to his chest, although the clear liquid was now soaking into his clothes and dripping silently onto the pavement.

The scene tore at Thomas's insides. He looked down at the filthy, pathetic corpse lying on the ground, and something broke. He didn't think of himself, or of the many ways simply running away could benefit the longevity of his life, but walked calmly forward. With three powerful strides he was on top of the shooter, one hand grasping the arm with the gun. The shooter struggled and twisted, using his free hand to beat Thomas around the neck and face. The gun went off again twice, bullets flying off to the side, their target unknown and their consequences someone else's burden to bear. Thomas managed to twist the man's pistol arm backwards, drawing from him a long, exquisite scream. The gun fell to the ground with a noise that slit the air like a pair of smoothly gliding scissors. Thomas let go of the shooter to pick it up.

Then the light came. A puny little light, making its way towards them from the direction Thomas had been heading. It reflected eerily off the dead man's eyes and shone on the smooth metal surface of the gun. The light came closer, bringing with it a policeman who wore an expression of mixed annoyance and ecstasy. Thomas looked blearily into the lantern that was beamed into his eyes.

"What's going on over here?" asked the policeman in a brassy tone that really wasn't necessary, considering the rather obvious quality of the crime scene he had just uncovered. It was then that Thomas felt the missing presence. He turned around and peered into the darkness, but the shooter was gone. He had vanished into the night with the stealth of a sewer rat. And it was then that Thomas began to fully appreciate the gravity of his situation. He was the one holding the gun.

A broad grin spread itself over the policeman's face. He was a young man and rather new to the job, and he was clearly very thrilled to have cornered a murderer. It was a story that had plenty of scope for future exaggeration.

"No, wait!" Thomas exclaimed as the policeman took out a pair of handcuffs, "It's not what it looks like!"

The policeman laughed and fastened the cuffs with bone-chilling click.

"I think I know It's exactly what it looks like."

Thomas tried to come up with the right words to explain what had happened, but they seemed to be just out of his reach. He found himself babbling like the poor little dead man on the ground as the policeman rolled his eyes with glee and poked something sharp into his back to make him walk. A crazy murderer made for an even better tale then a sane one.

After several minutes of increasingly worried rambling, Thomas was led up to the entrance of a large, stone building on whose front wall was inscribed words that could not be read in the darkness. It didn't matter. Thomas knew it was a prison. He felt himself walking still nearer to the terrible door, nagged from behind by the impatient policeman, and he looked around wildly for someone to help, before he was swallowed up completely. The street on which the prison permanently sat was completely silent. At first glance there appeared to be nothing moving except for a small, colorful flag that fluttered in the wind over a gleaming pub on the other side of the road, but then Thomas saw him. A man was watching his slow descent into captivity from several yards away. The aristocratic tilt to his head and the way it caused the shadows to fall upon his face seemed to spark something in Thomas's memory, but he couldn't quite make out who it was, and before he had much time to think on the matter, he found himself inside the jail, with the door shut behind.

* * *

All the while during his arrest and apprehension, Thomas had remained quite remarkably docile. He hadn't kicked or fought to get away or even been moved to elevate his argument with the policeman to the volume appropriate for a false murder charge. He had been in shock, and being a man who was usually the master of an exceptionally quick wit, the mere knowledge that he was in shock had sent him into a deeper shock. Now, however, contained within a musty prison cell with some unknown sentence hanging over his head, he came back to himself.

Thomas gripped the bars of his cage with all his might, draining the blood from his fingers as he did so, and called down the hallway in a voice shaky with barely contained hysteria.

"Come back!" he cried, "Let me out! I didn't shoot him, I swear! It wasn't even my gun! It's not my sodding gun!"

His voice echoed back at him, heard by no one but a few tired guards who ignored it comfortably. The prison was empty. It would seem that Leeds had either an appalling lack of criminals or an abundance of gallows. Thomas pressed his face harder against the bars in an attempt to see through the blinding darkness. His pale nose poked out through the gap like a flag of surrender.

"I didn't do it!" he called out again, his mouth stretched to the limit with clown-like misery, "The man ran away…"

He trailed off as his ears strained to pick up the faint sound of footsteps that could now be heard in the black hallway. He almost let out another appeal, but the rhythm of the footsteps stopped him. This was no guard or policeman walking toward him. The stride lacked the usual city haste, drawing closer instead with a kind of business-casual grace. As the person slowly came into view, Thomas's squinting eyes were finally able to place the sharp and rather bony features of the man who had watched from outside as he was taken into custody. Richard Carlisle, hawker of newspaper scandal and Lady Mary Crawley's former fiancée was coming towards him, some version of a smile dancing around the corners of his mouth.

"Ah," he said as he came to a stop in front of Thomas's cell, "I was wondering if you would recognize me."

Thomas had to gulp a few times at the lump of confusion in his throat before speaking.

"What are you doing here, sir?"

"I am about to do you an immense favor."

Richard Carlisle took a ring of keys out of his coat pocket and shook them slightly to make sure he got his point across. Thomas didn't get the chance to form the question that was on his tongue.

"I am going to let you go." said Carlisle, "And I want you to know why."

He inserted the key into the lock with acute precision.

"I am going to let you go because I know what damage it would do to old Lord Grantham to have two valets imprisoned for murder within a year."

His beady eyes flashed with an emotion that was too soft to spread to the rest of his face.

"I may be a powerful man, but I'll be the first to admit that I've been swayed by another. I could never do anything to hurt Lady Mary Crawley or her family."

The door to Thomas's cell swung open, and Carlisle stepped back to allow the prisoner to make his escape.

"Just remember," He said as Thomas attempted to walk out with dignity, "I let you out out of the goodness of my heart, and, more importantly, because I could."

A full grin spread across his face as he said this, and with superiority radiating from every fiber of his being, he turned and left. After he had disappeared into the darkness, Thomas found that he had enough strength to follow him. His heart pounded with worry about the guards at the entrance, but when he reached the place where they had stood just a short time before, he found it abandoned. He opened the door to the outside and made his final getaway. The air was damp and cold, but Thomas breathed it in deeply, letting its familiar taste fill his lungs and calm his beating heart. He looked around and saw that the little pub with the brightly colored flag was still alive with flickering light. Suddenly, he really needed a drink.


	17. Chapter 17

_I am very sorry that it took so long for me to get this chapter up. I do have excuses, of course, but none of them are very interesting or exciting. The important part is that the story of Thomas Barrow is starting to draw to a close. There should be only a few chapters left now, if the plot goes the way it seems to be going, so if there are any readers who have not absolutely given up on this particular fiction during its long absence, I would greatly appreciate any tips or criticism. That being said, let's see what happens to Thomas in that odd little pub, shall we?_

* * *

There had never been a place so utterly and completely brown. The color was introduced to Thomas as soon as he stepped over the doorframe by the cloud of dust particles that swirled around his head and into his nostrils. The little pub had looked much more alive from the outside. What had sounded like the cheerful ruckus of a well-attended celebration from the street had melted into a small handful of elderly voices chatting demurely over their mugs of beer. This was quite the normal state in which to find a small city pub in the wee hours of the morning, and there was nothing in the civilized voices or the solid brown wood of the bar that gave Thomas any discomfort. The eerie feeling of uneasiness that laced the regularity of the room like an odorless drug came from the fingerprints. They were everywhere, impressed into the brown dust that covered everything from the walls to the bottles that stood at attention on neat little shelves behind the bar. Although the prints were probably just the result of extremely infrequent cleaning, they gave Thomas a vague sense of claustrophobia. It was like watching a mime pretend he's inside of a box, only the other way around. You can see the box, but the person trapped inside is invisible.

Suddenly feeling extremely tired, Thomas took a few more steps into the room and sank down onto a rickety barstool, which, unbeknownst to him, could hold his weight for approximately forty minutes before collapsing onto the grimy floor. Thomas placed his palms down on the smooth wood in front of him and added his handprints to the others there. Although this motion made no audible sound, it immediately summoned the bartender, who had been hiding, up till this point, in a dusty little side-room.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked in a voice that much too high-pitched for his scruffy, angular face. His words, spoken in the most delicate of cockney accents, rose and fell in volume as he rocked on his heels behind the bar, making as little eye contact as possible. Thomas gave a little smirk at the man's question, thinking it squeaky and nervous, and when he opened his own mouth to reply, satisfaction rumbled through him at the solid bass notes that emitted from his throat.

"I'll take a whiskey"

The bartender gave a tiny nod and dove behind the counter. A few seconds of clinking and clattering followed, during which the old fellows in the corner turned to give Thomas a few curious glances, happy to have such an unprecedented opportunity to show off the full, wooly eyebrows that age and wisdom had bestowed on them.

When the bartender emerged once more, he was in possession of a square, dusty bottle, from which he immediately poured Thomas a glassful. Thomas drank slowly, letting the strong brown liquid warm his stomach as he stared straight ahead, thinking hard. It had been a very long and bewildering day, and not altogether one he wanted to remember, but Thomas couldn't stop wondering how Richard Carlisle fit into this whole mess. The man's actions failed to meet the demands of common sense. How had he, influential being that he was, manage to both get his hands on the key to his jail cell _and_ remove all the guards from the prison entrance without any evidence of a struggle…without the slightest sound of an argument? How could he be the Crawley's guardian angel when the last time he had seen them he had threatened to expose them to international scandal? And added to all this, of course, was the question of why Carlisle was in Leeds at all. The last Thomas had heard he worked almost exclusively out of London, where shocking stories were as common as the proper, attractive young ladies that graced the cobblestones with their silk skirts.

All of these thoughts chased each other through Thomas's head in an increasingly dizzying pattern. By the time three more drinks had passed, what had been the beginnings of an unrealistic conspiracy theory had melted away into a mere muddle of capital nouns and adjectives. The reason for this unnecessary fuzziness seemed to be just out of Thomas's reach, until a strange sound, or lack of sound, found its way to his ears. The soprano bartender had retreated once again into his back room, and the steady sound of pouring whiskey that had occupied the past fifteen minutes had ceased. Thomas was about to call the delicate creature back to his task, when the alcoholic silence was broken by a sound that struck an instantly pleasurable key in his mind, although he could not immediately tell why. The sound that awoke this reaction was that of a tired female voice, which floated to him scratchily through the dirty air.

"Jack?" it said, "You ready to go home? I know I'm not due for another hour but I felt restless. I need to raise some dust clouds."

Thomas squinted down at his glass. The voice was so familiar. And even more familiar were the clicking, uptight footsteps that made their worried way behind the bar, and the short, skinny fingers that relaxed, flat, on the brown wood across from Thomas's.

"You can take over, but I might just stay back here awhile, if you don't mind."

The bartender's reply was almost lost in the echo of those anxious footsteps, and the young woman to whom they belonged shifted her weight in an attempt to quiet them down. It was Lydia, of course. Nobody else could have broadcasted such a concentrated ray of righteous surprise at seeing his face. Thomas blinked up at her. His eyes looked so dull and confused that she didn't go ahead with what she had planned to say if ever this moment came to fruition. Instead, swallowing her entire pre-planned speech, she turned around to face the neat wooden shelving on the wall opposite the other side of the bar.

"You want anything, Thomas?" she asked him, once he was safely out of visual range.

"I came here to look for you." He answered.

She rolled her eyes at the rows of bottles on the shelves and then blinked out a few grains of dust. Anyone watching might have thought she was crying, but she wasn't. It was the dust.

"I don't know why." She said finally.

Silence again. Thomas's forehead sank to meet the table. The graceful bartender emerged from his little room again, and knitted his eyebrows together in concern at the odd intensity of the scene playing out across his bar.

"Everything alright?" he called over.

Lydia was on the verge of reassuring him when Thomas, speaking much too loudly, continued on with their conversation.

"I was in jail, you know!"

This statement, of course, got everyone's attention. The old men in the corner craned their necks so far, trying to get a clearer glimpse of the inebriated stranger, that they nearly spilled their drinks. Lydia stopped scrubbing at her eyes and turned to face him, dusty tears and all, and the bartender took several steps towards the door, pausing again in the middle of the room.

"You were where?" Lydia demanded

"Jail!" Thomas re-affirmed with slightly less volume, not having anticipated being the center of attention. "I _didn't_ shoot a man. I was helped by…by…" He trailed off, having forgotten the name of his savior in the heat of the moment.

"Mister Richard Carlisle"

This hesitant prompt was spoken by the barman, who was now standing awkwardly in the center of the room.

"He was in here a while ago," he said, in explanation. "Came into bad times, poor fellow. Got beaten out by another newspaper with more appalling headlines, he was telling me. His list of subscribers is plummeting, and he's losing money by the minute." The bartender trailed off into the pregnant silence while his hands fidgeted by his side, paying a little tune on an invisible piano, trying to break through the bad feelings that were hovering around the little group like a swarm of dust-eating flies.

"It's odd, you know, that he should have told me of his misfortunes." He continued, after a moment. "I'd think that such a great, proud man like him would want to keep his pride for a little longer before it all came out in the open, but that's the way it goes. People always talk to the bartender. It's as if they think that the cork keeps the secrets in too, as well as the drink. But, the way I like to look at it, no matter how long the secrets get to stew in there quietly, someday someone else is going to want a glass."

Upon ending his little speech, the bartender gave a tired smile which revealed the one, brave little dimple that dared to dent his thin cheek, and then turned to stride the rest of the way out the door.

Thomas's head was spinning once more. Going bankrupt? How had he never heard of this before? Was his mouth hanging open? Why was he in this dingy place, anyway? As far as he could tell, he should be back at Downton, safe in his bed. He could hear that Lydia had begun talking to one of the old men in the corner, but none of the words made much sense. Dust had wafted into his watery eyes, and now everything was muddy. It was all dirty, very dirty. He couldn't even see his own hands anymore. The stool he was sitting on gave a final dying creek and collapsed, and Lydia, with a careful sigh, went over to help up the tall, long-limbed man who was now sprawled in the midst of the rubble.


End file.
